


The Archive

by LostCauses (Anteros)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, canon angst, eruri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24944125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anteros/pseuds/LostCauses
Summary: Levi remembers the fallen soldiers of the Survey Corps the only way he knows how.
Relationships: Levi/Erwin Smith
Comments: 62
Kudos: 155





	The Archive

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [档案 The Archive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26654251) by [JasmineH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JasmineH/pseuds/JasmineH)



> From and Anon ask on Tumblr: 
> 
> "If Levi lives through all this, I wonder if he would make an archive of all the fallen comrades. He cares about them and doesn't want them to be forgotten/died for nothing. Ofc he probably hasn't gotten a chance to get to know all of them, especially new recruits. But he's observant enough that I feel like he'd put in some word and collect info about them to build their memory."

The muster books are kept in the Survey Corps Archive, an overly grand title for the large dusty room at the end of a neglected corridor near the top of the old headquarters. The records of the Corps are rarely disturbed; the only people who come here are the occasional junior clerk and Captain Levi Ackerman. The Chief Clerk entrusted him with his own key years ago. 

Levi climbs the stairs, lamp in hand. At the end of the dingy corridor, he fits the iron key into a familiar door that’s warped and darkened with age. The key grates in the lock as it turns, and Levi makes a mental note to bring oil next time he visits. 

Inside, the room is long and low, lit by two grimy skylights through which the weak winter sun filters. Even at mid day the room is in perpetual twilight. Shelves line all four walls, neatly stacked with leather bound ledgers, the muster books that record the name of every soldier who dedicated their heart to humanity and died in the service of the Survey Corps. The oldest books are fragile and discoloured, spines cracked and ink barely legible, soldiers’ names fading quietly to oblivion long after their lives and deaths have been forgotten. No one remembers them now, no one but Levi.

The musters are carefully arranged by year and commander. Some commanders, the 5th, the 12th, the 13th, take up rows and rows of shelves. One has only three books; the 9th Commander of the Survey Corps died leading his first expedition beyond the walls and is remembered by posterity as the unluckiest commander of the Corps. Levi is not so sure. 

Levi lights the lamp and sets it on the table, then he sits down and lets the silence settle into his bones. The room smells musty, filled with the pervasive vanilla odor of decaying books with a faint underlying hint of cedar and camphor, the clerks’ vain attempt to keep the moths and mites at bay. Oddly, the dust doesn’t bother Levi, it belongs here more than he does, to disturb it would be sacrilege.

After a few quiet moments, Levi stands and slowly paces the room, running his fingers along the bookshelves, the leather spines of the musters familiar as old friends. He selects a book at random, returns to the table and leafs through it until he recognises a name. Thomas Abelard. In four columns, Shadis’ blocky irregular hand records his name, date of birth, place of birth, and date of joining. The fifth column lists a second date, along with two letters; DD - Discharged Dead. The six column, marked Qualities, is blank. In the empty space Levi writes “Couldn’t hold his drink. Best horseman in the Corps.” Further down the page he finds another name he knows. Lena Dorman. He thinks for a minute, trying to picture her. Tall, red hair, head thrown back, laughing. Always laughing. “Annoying laugh. Strongest soldier in her squad.” He returns the book to the shelf, chooses another one, the last book on the lower shelf by the door. This one is a work in progress. He opens the book carefully, smoothing the pages flat with the palm of his hand, conscious of another hand that opened those pages, a hand that smoothed over his own skin with the same care and attention that he now bestows on these dry pages. Levi’s chest aches. 

Looking down the page, a name catches his eye. Marlo Freudenburg. Levi remembers when he stumbled over his squad in the forest outside Trost. Levi hadn’t trusted him, but he’d been as good as his word. Better in fact, he’d lead them to the headquarters of the Interior Military Police. Beside his name Levi writes “Not bad for an MP. Trustworthy. Fought bravely till the end.”

The names march down the page, every death date the same, a date that is seared in Levi’s soul. The Battle of Shiganshina. Before the expedition, Erwin had insisted on mustering every single volunteer in his own hand, over a hundred of them. Levi had offered to help, but Erwin had insisted he do it himself, arguing it was good practice for his left hand. Levi wasn’t fooled, his handwriting was almost perfect by that stage. The soldier’s date of death is written in a different hand, but one that is equally familiar, Hange Zoe, the 14th Commander of the Survey Corps. 

Near the bottom of the page, one name stands out by virtue of the fact that there is no date of death. Floch Forster. Levi is seized with a powerful urge to score his name out, to expunge it from the record forever. Instead he writes one word, underscoring it heavily – “Jaegerist”. He closes the book with a snap, not caring if the ink smudges.

This is Levi’s penance and his duty. There are few enough left to remember the fallen, all those who lived and died for humanity. Here they remain, list after list of names and numbers. Only Levi remembers how much more they were. So whenever he can, he returns to this room, to these books, to commemorate their lives the only way he knows how.

Petra Ral. “Pissed herself first time outside the walls. The best of the best.” 

Olou Bozado. “Couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Loyal and brave.”

Mike Zacharias. “Big ass bastard. Could smell a Titan from a mile away. The strongest soldier.” 

Nanaba. “Too cocky by half. Kind and courageous. Never gave up.” 

Gelgar. “Pisshead. Always fought the hardest.” 

Sasha Braus. “Never stopped eating. Best shot in the Corps.” 

Moblit Berner. “Patience of a saint. An artist and a true friend.” 

Levi carefully traces over ever letter of the soldiers’ names, an act of reverence for the fallen, and for the man who carried the burden of their deaths. 

There are two books he can find without even looking, one is on a low shelf in the corner. The spine reads 844, 12th Commander, but the hand is not Shadis’. In his final years as Commander, Shadis had delegated the task of maintaining the musters to his Squad Leaders. This book is written in Erwin’s hand, his right hand. Levi leafs through the pages until he finds the names he is looking for; Isabel Magnolia, Farlan Church. Beside their names are written “Pain in the ass. Beloved sister.” and “Talked shit. Always had your back.” Beneath, is his own name; Levi, written in Erwin’s familiar bold script, and Ackerman, a shaky spidery scrawl from an unpracticed left hand. Beside his name, surrounded by exaggerated quotation marks are the words “Humanity’s Strongest”. He remembers giving Erwin shit for that. 

The other book is on a higher shelf. He has to drag the chair over to reach it. The date is 830, 9th Commander. Levi pulls it from the shelf, careful not to damage the spine, and carries it to the table. He doesn’t need to search for the page, the muster falls open in the right place. There, near the top of the page is the name Erwin Smith, written by the unfortunate 9th Commander. Beside his name, written in Hange’s chaotic scrawl is the date, that same date, and a few words “13th Commander of the Survey Corps. Humanity’s symbol and flame of hope.” Levi stares at the page blinking back the prickling sensation behind his eyes. He’s often wondered what words he might write there. Friend. Comrade. Creepy bastard. Liege. Lover. Levi never writes these words, he doesn’t need to, he carries them beneath his skin, they are etched into his bones, embedded deep in his heart. As long as he lives and breathes he will be Erwin’s epitaph, his vow and his promise. 

Levi runs his finger lightly over Erwin’s name, closes the muster and returns it to the shelf. 

“Just a little longer,” he murmurs as he leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> The muster books in this story are based on the 18th century muster books of the British Royal Navy, which are incredibly moving and evocative documents.


End file.
